


The Warped Viktrola

by RunRabbitRun



Series: Tales from the Cradle [2]
Category: Thief the Dark Project, Thief: Deadly Shadows
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Ballet, F/M, Familial Abuse, Female Protagonist, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Mental Institutions, POV Minor Character, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunRabbitRun/pseuds/RunRabbitRun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederika Vatelle, a patient in the Shalebridge Cradle, wasn't actually mad until they locked her up with the madmen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Solo variations and Pas de Duex

**Author's Note:**

> Another Shalebridge fic! With was written back in '06 and though it has numerous problems, I love it anyway.
> 
> Frederika (along with the other patients) is a sort-of-original character based on the 'Dancer' figure mentioned in the various notes and records that can be found around the Shalebridge Cradle. In her zombified form, she haunts the Lobotomy Theater.

Every single human being is going to die. Despite this, whenever someone knows for sure that their days are numbered, they act as though it’s a surprise. It’s a very humbling thing to know that you are going to die. It’s a very numbing thing to know you are going mad. Well… at least I don’t have to worry about it anymore.

I wasn’t always like this. I had a career and husband and a little daughter. I had a life. No matter how terrible my life had been, it was mine. It was mine. All my life the things I loved were taken from me again and again. I don’t suppose you can imagine what it’s like; to live a life that is gilded and blessed but in which you have nothing. Just try to think about it. Now it’s come to this. My mind is being stolen from me… by this… place. I cannot deny it anymore. I can feel it all the time. This incredible weight on my mind… like there’s some great, malevolent presence monitoring my every move.

The others are lucky. Either they’ve never known much better than squalor, or they’re just too mad to really know what going on. Our mad ‘King’, knows, of that I am very sure. Still, he won’t speak to me anymore. We won’t speak to anyone. He just…wanders. He used to be the dependable one. We all used to be something else.

I’ve got blisters on my feet, where my dancing shoes have rubbed away at the skin. My pretty little shoes… the delicate peach satin has turned a sick brown, the toes and heels worn down to almost nothing, the soft ribbons are gone altogether. I can barely remember dancing. It’s so odd… I can remember the strangest things. Odd little things, like combing my daughter’s hair, or embroidering a cushion… But I can only recall the faintest of memories about dancing.

I had practically been raised in the Opera House. True, my mother had a small but very comfortable apartment in Auldale, but my earliest memories are of running around backstage, or watching my mother put on her makeup before a performance. My mother was Luciana Vatelle. ‘The Divine Luciana’, they used to call her. She was the greatest soprano of the age, and specialized in the tragic operas. As her only child, I was expected to follow in her footsteps. My voice was sweet enough, I suppose, but I had always been enchanted with the dancers of the Opera. I would always hide in the wings during rehearsals just so I could get glimpse of the willowy, graceful women of the chorus. I was mesmerized by each delicate movement, and would attempt to imitate them as best I could. Most see childhood as time of reckless gaiety, but mine was of disciplined training and more or less constant work. And God, how I loved it. To work myself into exhaustion was my greatest joy, even as a little girl. I lived and breathed music. I suppose I was forced to grow up quickly, but at least I was happy. The other girls in the dancing chorus provided ample company, and my mother was affectionate, if not always attentive.

But, I suppose this is boring you. I asked my mother once why the tragic operas were so much more revered and popular than the comic pieces. I remember her answer, clear as a bell: “Because, love, people like to go and escape their boring little routines. They like to experience such intense emotion and heartbreak, and then they like to go home and be glad that they aren’t Brunhilde or Isolde.” Sad, but true. So, for your convenience, I’ll get to the part where everything went wrong.

His name was Edward Elliot. It was not uncommon for the young men of wealthier families to come backstage to, ah, ‘chat’ with the dancers and chorus girls after a performance. Edward had been dragged along by two of his elder cousins, and ducked out of their sight out of uneasiness. As fortune would have it, he had ducked into my dressing room while I was changing out of my costume. As you can imagine, our first meeting was extremely awkward. He stumbled around, trying to avert his eyes and fumble with doorknob, while I was blushing furiously and unable to stop giggling. I threw on my dressing gown and asked him to stay for just a little while.

He was so sweet then, just two years older than I was. I thought I loved him. Maybe I did. Being with Edward made me feel like grown woman. I felt beautiful, powerful, and perhaps even a little bit dangerous. I was so young, and it was all incredibly exciting to me. I had my own dirty little secret, and I loved it. But we were young and we were stupid. And as my mother warned me, all it takes is one little slip-up.

Edward’s family was barely a step up from the most minor of the nobility, but it still was one hell of scandal when we eloped. It was even more of a scandal when his family found out I was already three months gone with child. I should have been frightened and ashamed, but I was too proud, to shortsighted to know what a mistake I’d made. I was still enamored of Edward, and believed I would walk through hell and back just for him… and for the shock value. God, it still makes me laugh. I’m supposed to be some semblance of a fine lady, even if I am half crazy and dying. But just… the look on Edward’s mother’s and aunts’ and sisters’ faces…

Like many of the lower ranking nobility, Edward and his family were practicing Hammerites (meaning they went to church and made lip-service prayers), so Edward and I were married under Hammerite law. We couldn’t be divorced without an ecclesial and societal mess, so Edward’s family reluctantly let us be. I guess they figured having an opera girl in the household wasn’t nearly as bad as getting dirty looks during the Wednesday services.

The first year of marriage was bliss. My mother was disappointed that I wouldn’t be returning to dancing for some time due to the pregnancy, but she was delighted at the thought of a grandchild. Meanwhile, my husband and I were still mooning and sighing over each other. He wrote me the most awful poems. We spent hours together on our terrace, just… staring at each other. We didn’t talk as much as we used to. Granted, even when we did talk, it was usually “I love you so much” and “I love you more”, but at least we communicated. The sudden drop in conversation should have been my first clue that something wasn’t quite right between us. Still, I was too wrapped up in myself, in us, and the baby. I remember trotting around the manor, showing off my growing belly like it was a grand trophy. I would laugh in private at the disdainful looks on the faces of the older ladies in the house. I fantasized that they were intensely jealous of my baby, who would surely be more beautiful and wonderful than any of their children, and of the deep, transcendent love Edward and I had for each other. I want to retch just thinking about it.

I gave birth in late April to our daughter, Christine. And for the first time, I fell deeply, profoundly in love with my little girl. The slowly waning affection I had for my husband paled in comparison. The first time I saw her, I was exhausted and sore and covered in sweat and she was screaming and red as a cherry and covered in bodily fluids, I felt as though I was seeing God. I quickly convalesced from childbirth, and prepared to return to my dancing; practicing some of my old routines as well as planning out how I would manage motherhood and my career. In my now seventeen-year-old brain it was all terribly exciting. Edward, however… well, he had other plans. It was no secret that Edward’s mother in particular was not fond of me at all. I knew this already, but I had never let it bother me before. She always looked at me as though I was a fresh stain on one of her heirloom tapestries, and she had a way of talking down to me, as though I were a particularly noisy and badly behaved dog. I suspect the old bat considered me as some sort of immoral disease, poisoning the happy little bourgeois household that she so meticulously ruled over. Yes, she ruled over the family. Edward’s father may have held the title of Man of the House, but Lady Elliot held all the real power. Lord Elliot was as daft as he was podgy, and knew next to nothing of running a manor house. Lady Elliot may have been a hellion, but she was smart and capable. I should have realized what a threat she’d turn out to be sooner, but youthful shortsightedness was my downfall. As my marriage was now cemented with the birth of Christine, the only thing Lady Elliot could do about me was to compel me to fit into the mold of her perfect little life. Without my knowing, she convinced Edward to exercise his right as my husband and end my dancing career by force, if necessary.

Please believe me. I was not insane, not at that point. Yes, I was devastated, and yes, I fought as hard as I could to retain the control I had over my life. But honestly, what could I do? Edward wasn’t even twenty years old, but he was my husband. I had given my life over to him the moment I signed the marriage contract. More than that, I had lady Elliot to contend with. She held sway over her son like strong winds hold sway over a fragile sapling. I had Christine to think about as well. It didn’t take me long to realize that if Lady Elliot could, through her son, take my dancing away, she could just as easily take my child. I searched furiously for an ally in the house. The servants liked me, I suppose, but they had no more power than I did. I sought refuge with my mother but, as cruel fate would have it, she died a little over two months after Christine was born.

The Doctors call me paranoid, but I’m not so crazy. How can a healthy, nourished woman just collapse? I was told that her heart, made weak from years of ‘over-excitement’, failed her. I was told that it happened to hundreds of women who took too much upon themselves. I know very little about my own mother’s death, but I do know that at her funeral, triumph blazed in Lady Elliot’s eyes like light glinting off of a knife edge. Doctor Sandbridge that… evil, little man… has told me over and over if I would only stop fighting the currents of my life, to except my place in the world, I would become fit enough to return to society. How could he understand? He spent every day and almost every night here at the Cradle. If his wife dropped dead he probably wouldn’t notice. I bet he’s never even had to raise his own children.

What could I do?

I could diminish myself. I could fade away into Frederika Elliot, Edward Elliot’s shadow wife. Obedient, faithful, quiet Frederika, who devoted every second to her daughter, who never stepped out of bounds, and who lived in fear. To my shame, that’s exactly what I did. It makes me sick just thinking about it. I woke every morning with ice in my stomach, my thoughts whirring around how I could keep myself hidden away for the next twelve hours. It was choking, paralyzing fear that kept me in line. My dear, lovely little Christine. She looked so much like my mother and me, with barely any of Edward’s influence in her. She had my blonde hair and my mother’s beautiful copper-colored eyes. I though I would die if I lost her. I lived like a ghost for nearly six years.

For the life of me I cannot decide if what happened was a tragedy or a miracle. On one hand, it freed me, and on the other, it landed me here at the Cradle. As I said, it had been six years since Edward and I had eloped. Predictably, our childish romance deteriorated spectacularly. It began as a strange silence between us. We had nothing to say to each other. Then I began to dread mealtimes, when I would be seated next to him for nigh on two hours, trying to fill the silence between us with witless meaningless words, only to receive his empty gaze in return. The thought of bedtime made me sick to my stomach. He began to spend more and more time away from home, doing… oh, heaven knows what he was doing. Whether he was tending to family affairs with his father or visiting a mistress (or two) somewhere, I honestly didn’t care. There grew to be this enormous gap between us; we had absolutely nothing in common. We hardly spoke, and when we did, it was stiff and awkward, and sometime harsh and hostile. I began to see him as this vapid, empty shell of a man, and I hated him.

 

It was very early one November morning when it happened. It was a small disagreement that escalated very quickly into a full-fledged shouting match. Edward wanted to send Christine to some awful boarding school, and I, of course, wanted to hire a governess and keep Christine at home with me. I believe I even offered to teach her myself. I could read and write, embroider and play the harpsichord a little. Those were basically the only subjects taught to girls. I tried for days to sweetly persuade and cajole him, but he wouldn’t even listen to my reasoning. The tension built up and snapped.

“You can’t keep her here like your little doll, Frederika. Why can’t you act like a grown-up and realize that?” He shouted at me from the balcony adjoining our bedroom, accenting the words ‘grown-up’ with poisonous distain. I was incensed. Not just because of the way he talked down to me and called me a child, all the hate and frustration I kept locked up for six years burst forth, sweeping everything away. I rushed at him in my nightdress and slippers; I must have looked like an angry ghost. Then… it was as if time slowed down. The winter rains had left puddles on the balcony’s slick tile floor, and the night-chill had frozen them into thin patches of extraordinarily slippery ice. When I pushed him, Edward stumbled backwards. He slipped even further back over the ice, into and over the low metal railing and then down, down into the alley below.

I don’t know how long I stood there, clutching the railing, staring down at Edward’s broken body, lying there on the cobblestones, watching the way blood bloomed from his cracked skull, gushing as freely as though someone has turned on some kind of internal spigot. I won’t lie. I had meant to hurt him, but I never meant to kill him. I never… Shivering in nothing but my nightdress, I went back inside and closed the doors. In a sort of numb state, I dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. When Edward’s sisters asked me where Edward was, I simply told them that he had a headache and was sleeping in. To this day I’ll never know why I didn’t just tell them that Edward was dead. All I could do was sleepwalk through my morning routine, with such a feeling of sheer… relief flooding my mind. Around noon, there was a knock on the door. It was the City Watch, come to arrest me for murder. It’s almost too coincidental to believe, but a beggar woman had seen Edward fall, and had seen me looking at his body from the balcony railing.

As soon as the Watch Captain announced my ‘crime’ to the whole family, Lady Elliot let out a torrent of evil words against me. She called me plague, murderer, whore, and all manner of things. I myself did not stand idle. I screamed at her. Not all of it was discernible speech, but I screamed. All the hate I had built up against her poured out of me. I did not stop, not even when the Watch Captain clapped heavy irons around my wrists, not even when I was locked away in a prison cell. I did not stop until my voice faded away after about a day. After that I was silent. Apathy settled on my mind like a heavy winter cloak. I couldn’t have cared less when I was told that, under Lady Elliot’s instruction (and bribery, probably), I was to taken somewhere ‘safe’ where I could ‘rest’... where I could be quietly forgotten. All I could think about was Christine, and that I would never see her again. I would never see her grow up. I would never see her grow into a beautiful young lady. I would never see her marry. I would never see her bear any children of her own. What would happen to her under the odious care of Lady Elliot? If I had any heart left, I would have prayed for mercy on my child, but I didn’t even have enough for that.

I was raining the evening I arrived at the Cradle, one of those freezing, stinging rains that we get so often during winter. I had only been out under in deluge for a couple of minutes (from the prison to a locked carriage and then from the carriage to the Cradle), but I still managed to get soaked. I was brought in via a back door, which led into a narrow, dark hallway. I stood for a minute, shivering and dripped wet in my heavy blue gown, the same one I wore the day Edward died. After a few minutes, I was greeted by an elderly woman wearing a gray uniform, and a young, heavily built man who I assumed was her assistant. The lady looked me up and down, assessing me, not even bothering to be surreptitious.

“Ah, the new arrival. You gentleman may leave” she gave my escort a dismissing wave of the hand. The young man immediately took my arm and half led, half dragged me down the hall after the old woman. “I am Matron Arthur, and you will address me as such. Understand? Good. Now, we have some rules here, but I assure you that they are very simple to follow.” She spoke in a crisp, commanding voice, rattling off about what to do and what not to do. I got the distinct feeling she was speaking more for the benefit of her own authority than for me. Don’t go wandering around without permission; don’t leave White Hall (whatever that was) without an escort, no roughhousing in the exercise yard, no noise making at mealtimes, don’t talk to the orphans, and on and on and on. We emerged from a maze of corridors into a wider hallway that was lit with painfully bright white light. On one side there were heavy metal doors, and on the other a sort of barred gate that led into a large open space with long tables. I didn’t get a very good look as Matron Arthur had unlocked one of the doors and the young man all but threw me into the cell.

“There are some dry clothes there on the desk, and someone will bring you some supper in a bit.”

“Wait, I-" I started to speak, but the young man had already slammed the door shut. I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, and I was very much alone. Giving in to tiredness and fear, I sunk to my knees, one hand clutching the gnarled edge of the desk. I thought that if I ever felt afraid before, I didn’t know what true fear was. After a while a young nurse bought a tray of some kind of meat pie. She took one look at me, set the tray on the floor in front of me, and fled. After she shut and locked the door I attacked the food, realizing how hungry I was. The pie was cold, but I didn’t care. Feeling a little better, I willed myself to get up off of my knees and to examine my new living space. I inspected the room, feeling my heart slowly sink to a spot just below my stomach. It was a small, ‘T’ shaped room, with a battered wooden desk and stool and a metal bed as its only furniture. The mattress on the bed was little more than a large sack stuffed with rags, hardly augmented by a thin blanket. The clothes Matron Arthur had mentioned consisted of a plain grayish-brownish-greenish dress and a long nightdress. They were old and were a size too big, but they were clean and dry. I gratefully traded my heavy, wet gown for the nightdress. I carefully hung my gown over the edge of the desk to dry and walked to the side of the bed. I longed to throw myself onto it, to cry my eyes out, to beat the mattress with my fists until I fell asleep from exhaustion, but the bed looked like it would fall the pieces if I so much as sat on it with too much fervor. I gingerly lowered myself onto the mattress. The bed frame creaked loudly. Carefully, carefully, I lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket over me. I did my best to ignore the metal bars digging into my back through the mattress, and resolutely shut my eyes. After about half an hour of lying still, I heard a voice, down the hall, maybe, call ‘Lights out!’ and I was suddenly plunged into complete darkness. Thick rainclouds blocked even the slimmest ray of moonlight from shining through the single, small, high window.

I needed to sleep. I tried to sleep. But, God, the noises. I knew the Cradle was an old building, so I wasn’t bothered by the creeks and groans of the stone and wood. It was the screams. They sounded close, perhaps even in the next cell. I dreamed about Christine, out on the streets, crying loudly for me as indifferent, faceless passerby ignored her. I slept fitfully, waking up in cold sweats to the sounds of panicked, choked cries.

The next morning, I was awakened not by screams but by a knock on the door. Feeling a little odd, I let out a timid ‘who is it?’

“I’m Doctor Sandbridge, Mrs. Elliot. Are you dressed?” came a man’s high-pitched voice.

“Uhm.. Just… just give me a moment.” I answered back. I struggled out of bed and quickly changed into the ugly dress. “Come in!” I added when I was finished, still feeling rather awkward.

The door was unlocked and opened. Into the room stepped a short, slightly portly man, followed by Matron Arthur. He smiled at me and set a small inkpot on the desk and pulled out a small pad of paper and a pen. The Matron quickly gathered up my dress, shoes, and stockings that I had left on the desk the night before. I started to protest, but she ignored me and swept from the room, leaving the door open.

“Where is she going with my clothes?” I asked the doctor.

“Oh, she’s just going to get them washed.” He answered placidly, leaning on the edge of the desk. “Now”, he continued, “Mrs. Elliot, I would just like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

“Alright…” I murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “But, can I ask you a question first?”

“Of course.”

“Why am I here? I’m…I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t need help.” I hated how frightened I sounded, but I was still very tired and the whole situation seemed very surreal to me. I was trying to be honest and calm. Perhaps this man could be an ally of sorts, if I could prove to him that I was sane. The doctor only gave me a half-smile.

“You are not here because you did anything bad, you are here to rest.”

“But I just said-”

“Mrs. Elliot, please.” He silenced me with a hand. “May I ask you few questions?” I nodded.

“When the, ah, incident of your husband’s death occurred, how were you feeling?”

“How was I feeling?” I repeated, confused.

“Yes. Did you feel healthy? No nausea or lightheadedness of any kind?” I shook my head. “Hmm, how about your state of mind?”

“Well, we had been arguing, so I suppose I was rather upset.”

“You were arguing? About what?” He widened his eyes, to make himself look understanding and interested.

“Our daughter, Christine. I didn’t want her to go to boarding school.”

“Oh, I see.” He said in a confidential tone before inking his pen and scribbling furiously on his notepad. The action unnerved me and left me wondering what exactly had I said that was so important.

“Mrs. Elliot” he said once he finished scribbling “I understand that you worked at the Opera House before you were married.”

“Yes. I was a dancer.”

“I see.” He said again and took a few more notes. “How would describe your experiences while you were there? Stressful?”

“Well, I guess it was, a little. But I was used to it.”

“No bad experiences there while you were a child?”

“No.”

“None what so ever?”

“No, none what so ever.”

“Are you telling me the whole truth, Mrs. Elliot?”

“Yes! Yes, I am telling you the whole truth.” I snapped. I quickly remembered that I was trying to appear stable. “Well, what I mean was that it was hard work, but I-I enjoyed it. It was my life.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows. I thought he might ask me something else, but just said ‘I see’ again, made a few more notes and straightened.

“This was a very good little talk, Mrs. Elliot. I will be back to see you in a few days.” He turned to leave but I called after him.

“Wait, please, just a moment. Could you tell me what is going on? I mean, how long do I have to stay in here?”

“Well,” the doctor answered in an indulgent tone “You will stay in here until breakfast, which is in about half an hour.”

“And then?”

“Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Elliot. It’s all been taken care of.” And with that, he closed the door behind him and locked it.

“To hell with you.” I spat at the door, not caring if he heard me.

Doctor Sandbridge… he was never overtly callous or even curt. Not with me, anyway. He just had this talent for setting other people on edge. I hated him for the way he talked to me, as if I were a little wayward child. He was true to his word, though, and an orderly came to fetch me for breakfast. He led me by my arm through one of the gates and into the open area I had seen the day previous. As I had suspected, it was a dining hall. I was directed towards a table in the southwestern corner of the room, where three other women were already sitting. The girl next to me seemed very young, with lots of curly black hair and rather wide-set blue eyes. Across from me was plump woman of maybe twenty-five with short brown hair and a strange urn in her lap. Next to her was a girl of about my age with red hair and very bright green eyes.

“Hello.” I offered quietly, smiling a little at the red-haired girl. She looked at me, seeming a bit surprised. She gave me a strange grin, but didn’t say anything. There was an awkward silence as a nurse came by and gave us each a bowl of grayish porridge. The woman with the urn took a spoonful of the stuff and held it up to the urn, as if she expected it to take a bite. I quickly looked away and concentrated on my own food. I figured it was a day old, but it tasted fine. The dark haired girl ate with her fingers, getting porridge everywhere. When I looked at her, she lifted her eyes to me and grinned. Her eyes were empty, but the smile was sweet and I returned it.

There was another table across the room from us, at which sat five men. One of them seemed to be sobbing quietly, while the other four diligently ignored him. One of them, a rather tall young man with a shaved head, caught my eye. He glanced at the crying man and rolled his eyes. I sent him a questioning look, but he shrugged and returned to his porridge. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the men’s table, desperate for anything that would distract me from my own taciturn tablemates. Eventually, Matron Arthur appeared with the ever-present muscle-bound orderly. She spoke to the crying man in a soft voice, though her expression was as severe as ever. I heard her address him as Matthew, but I didn’t catch anything else. The orderly started to take him away when an auburn-haired man of about thirty stood up from his place at the table and yelled “PIGS! All of you, filthy, foul things! I’ll GUT you, you just wait!” He was dragged away too, but not before he hurled his bowl at the wall.

“See you at dinner, Cogs.” The man with the shaved head called blithely after him.

“Be quiet, Sullivan. You know the rules.” Matron Arthur hissed at him. He snickered, but settled down. “Ahem, that’s quite enough for today.” She announced in her clear voice. “Everybody, get up now. Nurse Lovewell has a new book for you today. Mackenzie, go with Nurse Cathis. Now, Mackenzie.” I saw one of the men, very thin with short black hair; follow one of the nurses out of the room with the look of the condemned on his face.

I could go on about that first day, and the few weeks that followed, but I fear you would die of boredom. The first day was terrible, just because I never knew what was coming next, but quickly learned that I had walked into a strictly organized routine. Wake up, breakfast, reading, treatment, back to the cell for a while, reading, dinner, and then bed. I, personally, prefer not to think about most of it. It was like bad dream. Eventually, the other woman as well as Sullivan and Mackenzie warmed up to me slightly and I began to get used their little… oddities. Even Cordelia, who was probably the most impaired out of all of us, would talk to me in her childlike manner. She reminded me of Christine and I, without really meaning to, adopted her, in a manner of speaking. I would comb out her glorious black hair with my fingers and braid it during reading time, I let her follow me around in the exercise yard, and I wiped her face when it got messy. She would bring me little things. Usually her gifts consisted of a leaf, small scrap of paper, or a round pebble. I hated the place so much, but having someone to talk to, even I they didn’t quite understand me, was wonderful. I wasn’t allowed to take care of myself, but looking after Cordelia, even in such a small way, was a great comfort. I needed as much comfort as I could get.

The worst of all was the treatments… Oh God, I still have the marks on my hands from the ‘Heat Therapy’. I knew I wasn’t mad to begin with, but the possibility of loosing my mind became very, very real. Once, while in the ladies’ lavatory, I braved a glance at myself in the spotty mirror that hung on the wall above the washstand. I barely even recognized the tired, haggard woman staring back at me. Without knowing what I was doing, I raised my hand and slammed it against the glass, breaking it into pieces and receiving a long gash across my palm.

In order to keep my sanity intact, I managed to get a letter sent to Clara, a servant back at my husband’s house. She had always been very kind to me, and I had valued her company. She must have still harbored some loyalty towards me, because she obliged my requests and sent the old viktrola and records my husband had bought for me, as well as my dancing shoes. She also sent a silver comb and a small hand mirror. I hid the mirror and comb from the staff, but I enshrined the viktrola on the desk in my cell. My body was in a bad state, sickened as I was, and dancing was more difficult than it had ever been, but I kept at it. Doctor Sandbridge continually asked me insipid questions about the viktrola, but never attempted to take it from me. He even granted my request that I perform for some of the children. Cordelia especially love to watch. I remember she was enthralled by the viktrola and would clap her hands in delight when she heard the tinny music. I wasn’t happy, but I was focused. I was still sane. Then, once again, just as I was finding my footing, the rug of stability was yanked out from under my feet.

Matthew died (hung himself during the night, poor man) and a new patient was brought into our midst a week or two later. At first, I saw him only from across the room during mealtimes and reading times. In the exercise yard, he kept to himself, speaking only to the other men, never approaching us women. He was somewhat quiet and stoic, and remarkably stable. He would have seemed perfectly ordinary, if not for that odd mask he wore. He had already been with us for over two weeks before I actually met him.

It was raining again, so the half-hour in the exercise yard was cancelled. In an odd stroke of benevolence, Dr. Ranker let us spend the time in the Lounge. Feeling better than I had in some time, I sat by the fire with the Moth (the red-haired girl), who turned out to be a bit of a firebug. She sat happily on the hearth; dangerously close to the flames, but she didn’t seem to mind. I listened carelessly as she sang a little nonsensical ditty, when suddenly someone was standing next to me. I looked up and saw the new patient. He leaned casually against the mantle, looking intently at the flames… or at least I figured it was an intent look, as the mask he wore concealed most of his facial expressions. It was the first time I got a good look at him. He seemed about my age, though it was difficult to tell because of the mask. He had shaggy brown hair that he always had to push out of his face, as none of us were allowed any sort of tie (another result of Matthew’s death). He was short, about my height, and a bit thin for a man. Overall, he looked so… normal. He must have noticed that I was staring, because he stopped looking at the fire and looked me in the eyes.

“Hello, Frederika.”

I felt my face grow warm and turned my gaze to the fire. It was little use, however, as he dropped to one knee and tapped my shoulder. Moth took one look at him, and bolted, her cheeks very pink.

“When someone says ‘hello’, the usual custom is to answer them.”

“I know that.” I said waspishly.

“So…”

“Hello, mister…uhm…” I was annoyed and a little embarrassed, but also at a loss for words. I didn’t know his name.

“Just ‘No One’ is fine.”

“No One?” I said incredulously. ‘Watcher’ (one of the older, male patients) and ‘Moth’ were definitely unusual, but ‘No One’ was particularly bizarre.

“Hmm, yes.” He said with a slight smile “Not my choice of moniker, but it’s what my tablemates call me.”

“Ah.” There a short silence when something occurred to me. “How did you know my name?”

“Watcher pointed you out.” Ah, the Watcher. Always living up to his title. “I take it he’s the, eh, sociable type?”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“Camaraderie amongst the mad. Interesting, isn’t it?” he said, more to himself than to me. I frowned.

“I’m not mad.” I said sternly. He looked at me quizzically (his eyes were a strange color, sort of a deep bronze).

“Oh. Really?” He titled his head slightly, looking at me in such a way that made me feel uncomfortable. I still don’t know why.

“Pardon me?” I asked, confused.

“What I mean is, how are you not mad? You’re here, so the good doctors must have some reason, no matter how convoluted, to keep you here with the genuinely insane.” He explained, irony edging his voice. I couldn’t resist a snort.

“Well, as the ‘good’ Doctor Sandbridge puts it I’m… hyper-emotive.” No One gave a grim smile.

“Oh, I see.” He remarked, imitating Sandbridge’s favorite phrase perfectly. I actually laughed at that. I hadn’t laughed in a long time. Even that little joke made me want to like him immediately. “He has come to have little ‘talks’ with you too?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I’m beginning to think he enjoys harassing me once a week.”

“Once a week? He only sees you once a week?” his tone grew suddenly serious. “Odd…”

“Why is it odd?”

“I’ve been up there,” he waved vaguely in the direction of the Seclusion Chamber “for two weeks and he’s come every day.”

“Oh.” More silence. “Uhm, if you don’t mind my asking… why are you here?” The words were out of my mouth before I realized I didn’t want to know why. I had only just found someone who could potentially be a friend to me. He seemed comfortingly stable.

“Hmmm… Well…” he seemed to consider a thought for almost a full minute before going on “Are you familiar with the Tallow Man murders?”

“Yes, a little, but what… oh.” I stared unabashedly now. He gave me a crooked half-smile.

“Please, don’t let it bother you.” He said in a tone that was almost soothing. I wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came to mind. It hardly mattered, though, because an orderly had come over to escort No One back to his cell. I was in slight shock at how easily I had been charmed by this man. The Tallow Man. Of course I knew exactly who he was. I can’t count how many times the subject was discussed over dinner back at Edward’s house. We women who lived in Audale never dared to go out after sundown, for fear of being horrifically mutilated and murdered. Even during the day, I remember pointedly avoiding alleyways and empty streets, and telling Christine to never, ever leave the house by herself. The Tallow Man had been a nameless, faceless threat for years, and yet I had spent the last ten minutes having a pleasant conversation with the monster himself. And I had liked him. I was brought back to my own cell, feeling strangely cold and sick.  



	2. Giselle variation: the Mad Scene

_“Are you scared?”_

 _He turns to me, his eyes half-closed. He would look content, and a little sleepy, if not for the sickly pallor._

 _“What?”_

 _I struggle to move forward on my hands and knees, my skirt getting caught up in my legs. “Are you scared?” I ask again._

 _“Of what? Dying?” He gives a weak laugh. “No, not of dying. Are you?” For a few minutes I can’t form the words, and then…_

 _“Yes. Well…. Not of dying. I’m afraid of dying here.” I rest my back against the wall, next to him. His breathing is ragged… but then again, so is mine._

 _“I wish we could have buried them.”_

 _“With what, our bare hands?”_

 _“I know, I know… Moth is dead.” He looks at me, and I wonder for a minute what he must have looked like before he was burned._

 _“Is she now?” he sighs after a pause._

 _“Mm-hm. In the Lounge.” I’m annoyed at how emotionless I sound. Someone who was practically a friend has died and I barely care. I’m too tired to care. It hurts too much._

 _“Oh, well.” He shrugs “Not like she had much to live for anyway.”_

 _“You don’t care, do you? You don’t give a damn that she died all alone in there.” I say huffily._

 _“Well, neither do you. Don’t try to lie.”_

 _“I do care!”_

 _“You mean you should care.” I hate him when he does this. He can read everyone, myself included, like a book, and doesn’t mind letting everyone know about his evil little insights. Bastard. Still… he’s right. He knows it and I know it._

 _We’re sitting near a pile of rubble that used to be a whole wall in the Shock Therapy room. For almost two days he was smashing at it with a bit of piping. Bricks and mortar lay in a sizable pile, but he never managed to break all the way through. By all rights he should have been able to… it’s like this cursed building is plotting against us, trapping us here, giving us nightmares…_

 _“Where were you born?” I ask suddenly._

 _“Excuse me?”_

 _“Tell me, where were you born? I’ve known you for over a year and I still hardly know anything about you.” I have to take a minute to breathe. Even talking is tiring now. He sighs and rolls his eyes, but eventually he answers._

 _“On a farm about fifteen miles outside the city.”_

 _“What kind of farm?”_

 _“Poultry, mostly. Chickens, ducks, pheasants…”_

 _“Who were your parents?” He suddenly glares at me._

 _“What do you care?” he snaps._

 _“Well, it’s not like we have anything better to do!” I really, really wish I could yell at him. To wheeze slightly when you’re trying to sound impressive just makes you sound like you have a pompous cold. He cough/laughs at this._

 _“My father was Edan; my mother, Clothide.”_

 _“Do you now where they are now?”_

 _“For the love of hell, Frederika…”_

 _“It won’t kill you to answer a few questions.” He stays silent. I decide to appeal to his masculinity. “Look at you. Unafraid, so you say, of death, but too scared to talk to me.”_

 _“I’m not scared.” He says coldly._

 _“Then answer me!” I chirp. He groans, whether from his illness or irritation, I can’t tell._

 _“Both my parents are dead.” He says finally._

 _“See, that wasn’t so difficult.”_

 _“Fine, fine.” He mutters. We sit in what is almost a companionable silence. There is another question gnawing at me, and I think it’s rather pointless to hold it back any longer._

 _“Are you at all sorry?”_

 _“For what?”_

 _“You are- were the Tallow Man. You killed people. Are you sorry?” Much to my surprise, there is no hesitation in is voice when he answers._

 _“No.” he turns and looks at me again and says in harsher voice “I suppose you don’t think it’s fair that you should die alongside me.” I frown._

 _“I don’t think it’s fair that any of us should die.”_

 

“Why?” I hissed at him, out in the exercise yard. “How… how could you do that?”

“Oh? And where does this sudden loyalty come from? You were never so fond of them before.” He snarled. Anger snapped between us like sparks, but we dared not raise our voices. We were, as per usual, being watched.

“It doesn’t matter! They were people, ‘King’ No One” I snapped, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “What do you think you are? Some kind of God? Who the hell are you to decide who lives and who doesn’t? They were only doing their jobs!” Behind that damn mask, his metallic eyes narrowed dangerously. If there’s one thing I’d learned about No One, it’s that he doesn’t like anyone hurting his pride. Faster than my eyes could track, his hand whipped out and viciously took hold of my wrist. He wrenched my arm up so that he was holding my own palm in front of my face.

“Look at yourself Frederika!” He said in a voice that was deceptively smooth and calm “Look at your hands! ‘Only doing their jobs’? Their ‘job’ is doing this to you, to all of us!” I wanted to cry, to clench my fist so that the twisted burn scars were no longer visible. “Admit, Frederika, for all your little affected high-born niceties, you are no better than the rest of us. You hated them too. Admit it; you liked it when you heard about what I did to those little-”

“You’re evil! You’re a monster!” I struggled to keep my voice steady. He pulled me towards him rapidly. I tried to break away but he was stronger than I. He released my hand and wrapped his arm around my waist in a painfully tight grip. Suddenly I was suffocatingly close to him. It had been so long since I had really touched another person, and this close contact made me want to cry and retch and struggle and give into it all at once.

“You would have done the same thing, given half the chance.” He hissed in my ear, while softly, gently, menacingly running a long finger down my cheek. My resolve broke.

“SHUT UP!” I screamed finally. He released me and I stumbled backward into the wall, unable to stop sobbing. I buried my face in my hands, so that only his feet were visible through a blur of tears. I heard approaching footsteps. I glanced upward and saw Dr. Pettihue and two orderlies, one of which had No One by the arm. No One didn’t struggle or try to shrug him off, but just stared at me like a hawk.

“What is all this!” blustered Dr. Pettihue “Mr. Poshtoll, have you been harassing Mrs. Elliot, here? Such brusqueness towards a lady is simply unacceptable. Mr. Poshtoll, are you listening to me?” Pettihue sighed when No One didn’t respond. “Fine, _No One_ , are you listening?”

“Most attentively, Doctor.” No One said politely.

“Alright, then.” Pettihue cleared his throat. “I will not have discord among my patients.”

“My patients, actually.” Sandbridge, alerted by my screams, had come from the balcony to investigate “Thank you, Allen, I’ll take this from here.” Pettihue straightened his white vest with great aplomb and strode off. Sandbridge smiled in what I suppose he thought was a comforting manner. “Now, Mrs. Elliot, Number One, what seems to be the problem?”

“Ah, no problem here, Doctor. Mrs. Elliot just has a weak constitution. It’s very common among the Hyper-Emotive.” No One said easily, almost brightly.

“Very amusing, Number One. Mrs. Elliot, what happened here?” In a rush of will power I forced my tears to stop.

“It… it was nothing, sir. I’m fine now.” I murmured. Any sign of distress could be met with treatment, which I avoided at all costs.

“I see.” He said predictably. He gave me a long, examining look and then turned to No One. “I shall speak with you this evening, Number One.”

“I look forward to it, Doctor” answered No One, giving Sandbridge a leering grin. We watched the Doctor stride off towards the balcony. I, too, turned on my heel and started to walk away. “Very clever, Frederika.” He called after me “Pander to the norm and escape punishment- I mean ‘treatment’. That’s a strategy.” I turned suddenly and hissed at him.

“You. Are. A. Bastard.”

“I know.” He quipped, smiling a little.

I hated him then. I hated him because I knew he was right. When I heard the news about what he did to those two nurses, I felt… vindicated. The one that lived, Lovewell or Lovelace or something, often attended my ‘Heat Therapy’ sessions, looking on with bemusement as I suffered. The other one, Sorrell or something… she laughed. Not necessarily at me but, still… She would giggle when one of the others came back from the Shock therapy room, hardly able to move. She laughed at Matthew whenever he was having one his ‘fits’, as they called them. It was as though I had lost a limb but I could still feel its weight. I knew I should have been horrified at No One’s gleeful sadism, but I felt nothing. Rather… I was scared. That first day in the Lounge, when he told me who he was, I looked at him sitting by the hearth with the flames lending that mask porcelain sheen, and I felt smaller and emptier than ever… He looked like a beast; like something that lived under my bed as child and slunk around in the shadowy corners of my dreams, waiting for me to drop my guard.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he had worked himself into my good graces. He did it with such subtlety that I hardly noticed. I found myself depending on him to be sane, to be stable. He was one of the few I could talk to, who I could look to for a sense of sanity. It was exactly what he wanted. But when I heard what he did to those two nurses, I realized what he had done to me. He had made me comfortable, and then ripped it all away. I was losing my mind.

 

 _“Do you know what I miss most?” I ask idly, not really expecting him to answer. “I miss being a mother.”_

 _“You mean you miss you husband and your daughter.” He says, and it occurs to me that, for once, he isn’t quite correct._

 _“Well… yes and no.” I continue, not really caring that he’s only humoring me. “I do not miss Edward, my husband. My daughter… I missed her for a long time. I still do, I suppose… but I miss just being her mother more. Just the little rituals of caring for her.”_

 _“If you ever got out, would you go back to her?” I’m struck by the sincerity in his voice. I respond carefully, slowly._

 _“I… well, I guess… No. I wouldn’t. When I... when I left, she was six years old. She’s about eight years old by now. She probably doesn’t even remember me. I’ve changed too much. If I ever did get out, I would… I would have nothing. I wouldn’t be able to take care of her.” I sigh, and pass my hand over my eyes. Like so many other things, I don’t want this to be true, but it is. I turn and notice he’s looking at me. Not his usual glare or with sarcastic questioning in his eyes. He’s really looking at me, as though he’s trying to memorize every bit of my face. Unnerved, I turn away. “What about you? If you ever got out, what would you do?”_

 _“Get as far away from here as I possibly could. Farther than Cyric or Blackbrook, even.”_

 _“Where would you go?”_

 _“I don’t care.”_

 

It happened so fast.

The riot… it… Cogs started it. He screamed out vulgar curses and threats. While the orderlies were distracted, we attacked. Well… they attacked. I ran back to my room and gathered up my things. I was getting out while I could. He was gaining control, but I was determined that he would not get me.

 

 _“Why didn’t you fight with us?” He says suddenly. Jarred by this abrupt change in the subject, I snap at him again._

 _“Because I’m not like you!”_

 _“Oh really?”_

 

It was when the orderly was chasing me, to what purpose I don’t know. I had hidden in the attic with my things, but he found me and tried to grab me. I snatched up my viktrola and ran for it. Halfway down the stairs, I tripped. I caught myself before I could fall, but I dropped the viktrola. It clattered and banged down the remaining steps. Horrified, I shrieked and ran after it. It lay at the foot of the stairs, the needle permanently warped and bent. I bent to pick it up, but the orderly had caught up with me and took me cruelly by the hair.

 

 _“Yes, really.” I snarl._

 _“That’s funny, because I seem to recall a certain-“_

 _“Shut up.”_

 

We were locked in. I sat in my cell, listening to sounds of the others do away with any survivors they found on ‘our side’ of the lockdown gate. I just knelt on the floor, my skirts spread around me like the petals of an overturned flower, staring at my bloody hands. I don’t know how long I stayed there. Long enough for Cordelia to become worried and try to tempt me out with her little presents. Time meant nothing. The others were overjoyed with their newfound freedom. I spent my time in my cell, dancing to the crooked songs I played on my warped viktrola. After a while I couldn’t dance anymore...

 

 _We sit in silence for a long time, tired out by all the talking. One hour, two hours, who can say? Finally I turn to No One._

 _“I think I… No One?” His eyes are still open, but his uneven breathing has ceased. I frantically try to remember when he stopped breathing as I take him by the shoulder and shake him as I hard as my weak arms can manage. “No One!” I hear myself cry out. My voice seems to have taken on a life of it own and I hear it screaming, begging him to wake, to not leave me here by myself. His body slumps over almost into my lap. I choke, so afraid that I almost retch. With quaking hands, I take hold of his painfully thin shoulders and turn him over so that he’s lying face up on the cold slate floor. Gently, I close his eyes. I let out a heavy sigh that makes my whole body hurt. I’m so tired, so tired…_

 _I find myself backing away from him. I am frantic. I force myself to my feet, I stumble and fall. I drag myself away from his body. I hear his death rattle, a long, ugly sound, and shivers race down my spine. I crawl into the narrow passageway connecting the shock treatment room to the lobotomy theater. I am dying too. My body gives out as I reach the alcove in the center of the back wall of the theater. I can’t move anymore. I just want to rest. I need to rest. I collapse, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere, far away, or maybe in my head, I hear distant, tinny, warped music…  
_


End file.
